With Me Tonight
by ATrueBritishGentleMan
Summary: Tavrin Nitram was raised by her loving dad, and has just met Gamzee Makara, a "bad influence". When her ex-crush meets her for the first time, Tavrin must choose between her dad, or drowning with the love of her life in drugs and ecstasy. GamFEMTav/AU
1. Lunacy Fringe

Your name is Tavrin Nitram, you're a lovely highschool Junior girl with perfect grades, even though you take those really difficult AP classes. You have a few really close friends who you appreciate because approaching other people is rather intimidating. You classify yourself as a nerd sometimes, but only express it in the safety of your home, where your room is covered in Peter Pan and fairy posters, you have Pok'e'Mon cards scattered across your floors and desk, and your favorite orange and red bears sit on your bed. In public though, you like to give off the image of someone who's strong and confident with your edgy side-shave Mohawk and septum and eyebrow piercings. Sometimes your dad will look at you and shake his head, but with a big smile on his face. Your dad is starting to get a little old, and you're positive he's the best dad that has ever existed. He always supports your crazy ideas of style, but is strict with grades and your classes.

It's a Wednesday, the middle of a week and you've still got a thousand things to get done before the week is over, but first things first; you need to get dressed. You sigh as you wiggle your hips and jump up and down in a humorous attempt to pull your skinny jeans over your wide hips and thick legs. After your ankles finally emerge from their claustrophobic hold you fasten them and smile a little when they go together a bit looser than they did last week. You're fairly chubby, not the fattest girl around, but definitely not the thinnest either. You wear anywhere between a size 9 to a size 11 in jeans, and try to avoid shirts that would cling around the little pudge at the bottom of your tummy. You toss all your hair over to the side and slip on a t-shirt and some sandals. Books and notes fall into your bookbag, which looks like something wilderness survivalists would carry with them on month-long voyages, as you toss everything from your late night study session into it, and you can hear your dad fuss at you from in the kitchen.  
"6:58!" He calls, warning you that if you don't leave soon you'll be late.  
You curse at him under your breath and heave the 20-pound-thing over one shoulder and steal your dad's coffee from him as you walk out the door, keys jingling in hand. You glance back briefly over your shoulder to see him, a small man, with grey on the sides of his dull hair but with the big brown eyes of a child, just in time to see him tap his chest and point at you with a wink. You roll your eyes and smile back as you drop your bag in the passenger seat of your little worn-down car and start the ignition. You drive off and sip on your swiped coffee, which is made to your liking with Irish cream, while your dad drinks his black.

On your way to school you pass a grey mini-van pulled over to the side of the road, with paint chipping off and a little stream of smoke flowing from the opened window. Through the smudged glass you see the familiar sharp features of a classmate with his cheeks hollowed out as he sucks another drag through his cigarette. He's staring down at his phone with an agitated expression and exhales through his nose. You slow down for a second, considering pulling over as well to make sure he's okay, but when he looks up and makes eye-contact with you, you can't help but panic and drive off going faster than you should on this long country road.

The guy in the mini-van was Gamzee, and you knew him pretty well, and held a lot of mixed feelings for him. In middle-school you crushed on him hard, but never had the guts to even talk to him. That was a dark and painful part of your history, one that you didn't like to think about often at all. You had never really gotten the opportunity to properly talk to him, despite the one time your friend tried to introduce the two of you, he simply had too many other friends and nothing in common with you, the long haired brunette who never got in trouble and was too afraid to take risks. The whole ordeal has left you with a bad taste in your mouth, and your initial reaction towards him is to wrinkle your nose and turn away. As you pull into the school's parking lot and drive routinely to your spot you think back to him sitting in his van on the side of the road, and wonder who his dealer is these days.


	2. I'm A Fake

Your name is Tavrin Nitram, you are 12 years old, and in the 7th grade. You are crying quietly from your big brown eyes, only to be seen by the fairies on your walls. You glance to your door with a guilty expression, even though it's almost 2 in the morning and the door is locked, your back crawls with the anticipation of your dad busting in at any minute. The carpet in your room scratches the bottoms of your exposed legs; a screwdriver and the plastic shell of a pencil sharpener are placed beside you. Your long hair is constantly being pushed behind your ears, only increasing your frustration.

In your hand is the tiny blade extracted from a pencil sharpener, barely even the length of your fingernail, but surprisingly sharp. It's held carefully between your forefinger and thumb, with the blade placed delicately at your ankle. You continue to stare at it, as you have for the past hour, and cry. You've been trying to cut yourself, but you just can't do it. It hurts, even the small cut that didn't even bleed stings, and you don't want to do this, but, that's what everyone else does. Gamzee and his friends, they wear wristbands and long-sleeved shirts to cover their cuts, you know because you've seen them when they move just right. And the girls he talks to, they have little cuts on their shoulders and ankles, and that's the only difference between you and them, right?

You bite your bottom lip and press the blade into your skin, if you cut yourself, he'll notice you. He'll show you his cuts too, and you can talk about why you cut, and you can make him feel better, and tell him to stop. Then you will too, that's how love works, right? In all the songs they listen to, they talk about cutting and how the person they love stops them. The blade pressed stronger, you see the thin top layer of your skin separate, but only the dull pain of pressure can be felt under the blade. You try to focus on the blade through your weary and tear-blurred eyes. He'll notice you, he'll see you and hold you in his arms and tell you that you don't need to cut yourself, but you do. You clench your eyes shut tight and swipe the blade quickly.

When you open your eyes you see tiny dots of red bubble up from the cut and you hiccup as your tears subside. This is what you wanted, to see the exposed and raw emotions.  
Blood is red for love.  
The blood stops flowing, already clotted, and never more than tiny red dots in a row.  
You feel your eyes sting in threat of crying again, and a surge of rage and hate wash over you.

You are literally the most pathetic thing that exists; you can't even control what happens to your body, whether good or not. How will Gamzee ever notice a girl that's just like everyone else, clean and unscarred, he'll have no interest in you.  
You hunch over and press your forehead into the carpet and throw the blade at the wall as hard as you can, it bounces off with a barely audible click. Your arms wrap around your torso defensively, and yet you feel nothing.  
You don't feel hatred anymore, no angst, not even affection when you think of him, just emptiness.  
After your breathing returns to normal you get up and reassemble the pencil sharpener, and tuck both back into a drawer. You unlock the door and walk back to your bed, feet dragging and stifling yawns that burn your throat.

The blankets provide little comfort, so you close your eyes and imagine the way Gamzee looks at girls fondly, and reaching forward to play with the tips of their hair. This time though it's you, you're wearing black wristbands and a t-shirt with a band name on it in illegible font, and black skinny jeans with chains on them, instead of the stupid colorful things you wear now. Gamzee thinks you're a really good artist, and wants you to draw something for him, and you just smile and blush. The sound of floor-boards creaking is the last thing you hear before falling asleep.


End file.
